


Concussed

by AnotherNamelessGhoul



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Concussions, Gen, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Sickfic, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23191117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherNamelessGhoul/pseuds/AnotherNamelessGhoul
Summary: "So he'd saved Geralt, more or less, and he had no memory of the fight its self. It felt like a personal affront from the universe."Jaskier ends up in the fray during a monster hunt and is convinced that he's dying. One shot.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 279





	Concussed

When Jaskier woke up he was being... rocked? No, that wasn't quite it. But he was moving, he thought. He could tell that. Horseback? He pried his eyes open and clamped them shut again immediately as the sunlight shot ice picks through his head. As long as he kept his eyes closed he felt... not good, but not bad, either; like his head was stuffed up with cotton wool and his thoughts couldn't quite break through. It would've been almost comfortable if it wasn't for the sheer disorientation of the entire situation and the nausea that had started to kick up now that he was aware enough to register it. What had he been doing before he had, what, fainted?

He was on horseback, he thought for sure. And his head was nestled against a warm, broad back that was taking all of his weight. Had to be Geralt. If he'd been kidnapped they'd not have let him rest his head like that. Which meant he was on Roach. He wasn't allowed to be on Roach. That could only mean one thing.

He was dying.

His head was too fuzzy to be alarmed by the notion. He felt so heavy against Geralt's back that never having to lift himself again might be nice. He wasn't sure if he could even lift his head now. He shuffled, tried ineffectively to move, and a moan escaped his lips. A hand was placed on the back of his neck for just a second, stroking the little tufts of hair at his nape, and words were being said, something that sounded soothing in tone and cadence but that he couldn't process. His first thought was 'is this really Geralt?' And his second was 'oh, I really am dying.'

The pain in his head was transferring to his gut and he definitely needed to be sick, but if he knew anything about Roach it was that she was a fancy, discerning lady and she would probably pitch him right off if he threw up across her back, not to mention that he couldn't even lift himself away from Geralt. Just because he was dying didn't mean he'd like to speed the process up any faster, thanks. 

He heard something that finally came through as "stay with me," and he made another miserable sound against the armor his face was pressed into. Going back into unconsciousness seemed so much more pleasant. He could feel his heart thrumming through the back of his skull.

"Do we need to stop?" 

The deep, low voice was the one thing that didn't hurt his aching head. He very much did want to stop, get his bearings on something that was not barrelling down the road and jostling him. He managed to nod a little, though his tongue still wouldn't cooperate. 

Roach was slowed, so gently and smoothly that he barely noticed it until the weight in front of him shifted and he was lifted up as if he weighed nothing and eased down to sit on the ground, propped so that he didn't fall straight over into the dust from the road. His vision went dark around the edges and the world tilted dangerously around him. He swallowed hard and whimpered again, aware that he sounded pathetic but unable to stop. 

"Nauseous?" Geralt asked him without waiting for an answer. "Here, tuck your head down between your knees. There you go. Now breathe. In through your nose." The warm weight of a hand ran circles across his back. "You're in shock, I think."

It was impossibly gentle and kind and very un-Geralt-like, the soft voice and soft touch, and it continued to support Jaskier's theory that he had one foot in the grave. Let him drift away like this, then, able to pretend like the Witcher loved him and would be sad to see him go. It was nice. Gradually, his head cleared, or cleared enough that he didn't think he was in imminent danger of going unconscious.

"Water?" Geralt asked, and pressed a waterskin against his lips, not allowing for a refusal. Jaskier sipped. He felt marginally less sick, if the headache didn't abate. He let his head drop again and the weight fell between his shoulders once more. 

He'd always thought that maybe he'd live a long life and there would be ballads written about his great adventures with Geralt. That was the saddest part of all of it; as many songs as he had written for Geralt, there would be no songs for him. 

"How are you holding up?" Geralt said, as if not quite sure what to do with the silence usually filled by a jabbering bard. 

"You don't even play the lute, Geralt," he mumbled, the first words he'd managed to get out."

"What?" He sounded impossibly worried and Jaskier realized he'd probably not made a lot of sense.

Jaskier could feel Geralt move to crouch down in front of him. He forced his eyes open into little slits and Geralt's own eyes, filled with concern, filled his field of vision. 

"Do you remember what happened?"

"I remember getting up this morning. Breakfast." He had to shake off the thought about breakfast as his stomach turned again. "That's... it."

Geralt frowned and pressed his hand under Jaskier's chin, turning his face up to the light to look into his eyes. Jaskier wanted to pull away, curl up and close his eyes and never move again, but something about Geralt's gaze locked on his kept him still through the examination.

"Hit your head pretty hard," he confirmed, running careful fingers across Jaskier's scalp, probing. It was all well and good until he hit a spot on the back of Jaskier's skull, sticky with old blood. Jaskier jerked away and the sudden motion set pops of color in front of his eyes and his head spinning. Next thing he knew he was lying with his cheek on Geralt's thigh.

"Stay with me," he said, harsh and sharp but in a different way from normal irritated Geralt. "Awake."

"I'm trying," he started to say, but his stomach chose that moment to give up the battle and he brought up the aforementioned breakfast and the small amount of water he'd managed, shoulders heaving and tears springing in the corners of his eyes. His position in Geralt's lap left him no way to contain the mess and he hadn't even had time to hoist himself upwards before it struck. Geralt made a sound that Jaskier couldn't quite place and he waited to be shoved off onto the cold ground, hoping he could at least stop his head from thumping it when he fell. Instead, he was hoisted upwards and supported, given a much easier position to finish emptying his stomach from and an arm to brace on to stop him going forwards into his own sick. 

"My head," he said, voice miserable and strained, because even as he was trying to bring up his internal organs, it was really his head that was the issue, white hot agony behind his eyes. He remembered, then, the precarious position he was in; solely being held up by a witcher whom he'd just thrown up on, and he felt heat rise to his face.

As if reading his mind, Geralt thumped him on the back amiably. "My clothes have seen worse." 

"So you're not- you don't-" Jaskier wasn't quite sure what to ask, he was so startled. 

"I owe you one anyway."

"You... owe me?"

"Drowners. Whole group came out of the swamp. One came up behind me and you bashed its head in with your lute. Gave me time to run mine through with the sword and turn around to take out the third that slammed your head back into the cliff face we were camped at."

Jaskier reached up to absently rub at the swelling on his head and Geralt took his hand away. "Once you feel alright enough to get back on Roach we'll set back off for town and a healer."

So he'd saved Geralt, more or less, and he had no memory of the fight its self. It felt like a personal affront from the universe. 

"So. I'm not dying?" He asked.

"Not letting that happen. But we should get to a healer."

"Then if I'm not dying, why have you been so kind?" He asked, genuinely confused. "Why haven't you dropped me off and gone?"

The smallest smile twitched on Gerslt's face. "Don't you know I care about you, you stupid bard?" 

And that's the most emotion Jaskier had ever gotten out of him, and it was what he would cling to for the rest of the agonizing trip into town to recover.


End file.
